Where Angels Tread
by FlashyDwarf
Summary: Sherlock and John have come to terms with their deepening relationship and things can't be sweeter. However, the emergence of old secrets and passions stirs trouble for them. Will their new love break under the strain or will they fight to conquer all? Involves romance, pleasure and mystery-solving! HolmesxWatson! Enjoy the fluff!


_(Hello readers! It is my pleasure to announce this lady has officially been Sherlocked and will begin her fandom here! Really excited, this will be my premier Sherlock fic and also my first EVER malexmale fic! So, essentially, imagine we got no further than the Hounds episode. JW & SH have been together a little while. Essentially, I had this image last night when I finished the last episode and decided I NEEDED to get my feels out before I exploded. I'm covering the 'but what about Sherlock and Adler!' problem in this as well, she's got nothing on JW. If all turns out well I'll be continuing this, please read and rate and let me know what you think and if it's worth writing more chapters! Thank you, enjoy!_

_WARNING: INCOMING FLUFF. 3)_

* * *

**_Our First Few Butterflies_**

_(How precious is this love we share_  
_How very precious, sweet and rare_  
_Together we belong like daffodils and butterflies)_

Between indulgently soft cotton sheets, John Watson slowly coiled and looped the fingers of his outstretched left hand, probing and grasping greedily for an inch of flesh to run their tips across. His hands found his companion's side of the divan empty and in a sleepy daze he trailed them around the outline of the place where the body usually alongside him had formed a slight, slanting shape in the mattress from his repeated nights in the cosy confines of their thick goose feather duvet, nestled tightly in the warmth glowing from the body of his mate. Both of John's bright blonde-lashed eyes began to flicker open and register the fact that where his hands sprawled and reached for Sherlock, there was a certain mysterious emptiness.

Sleepily, he sat up and began to stretch his arms out to either side, yawning and embracing the golden dawn glittering through their open window. Dapples of sunlight streaked out across the pale skin of his naked torso and a gentle summery breeze, as debatable as summer can be in London, caught him across the spine and left comfortable chills rippling down his backbone. A small, dark butterfly flickered between the thinly spread fauna outside, making its way leisurely amongst patches of flowers. He slipped both legs out of bed carefully, then pulled himself upwards and found himself standing and beginning to organize his thoughts. His first thought, of course, to go and find him. Sluggishly, he turned to their unoccupied bedstead and began to hastily organize its sheets before noticing last night's heap of Sherlock's clothes at the foot of their bed, precisely folded. He smirked and recalled with hotness in his stomach the delicious proceedings of the evening before.

It didn't matter that he tossed his soft robe on before he lurched down the stairs, his head still faint. He realized as soon as he saw him, half asleep, lounging in the great armchair which was so massive in contrast with his slender wiry body that it seemed it could have completely engulfed him that perhaps he shouldn't have bothered with those procedures at all, life with Sherlock tossed aside such regulations as clothes. His lover looked somewhat spectacular poised in a half-lotus position, both hands resting on the arms of the chair and his legs crossed, the sunlight blaring in through bare windows illuminating the pale, almost translucent skin of his completely naked body. But of course the first thing John noticed was that as soon as he heard him coming, he had made a rather ill attempt at covering himself up, a notebook the only thing perched on his lap and John almost considered it to be a way of hiding himself from him. He chuckled softly, which earned a timid stare from his lover, a different man in the stark light of day to the darkness and passionate intensity of night.

"You do know how to make my morning brighter, 'Lock." He stated, brazenly examining every inch, nay, centimeter of the shockingly white body furled up before him. His counterpart enjoyed the attention more than a little, silently and subtly relishing the looks, the thin lips on his face curling into the crescent moon of a haughty smile.

"It doesn't take much deduction to know how to get your… motor turning John." He purred his words in as affectionate a fashion as it was possible for him to do. He watched his lover smile and turn away before quietly instigating an investigation into the kitchen fridge, where Sherlock deduced he would complain at the lack of food and begin to gather his clothes for another search, which would lead him to the shop on the end of the road, where he would buy food and return. He also noticed John ate more now than ever and put it down to his comfort in his company. That made him happy. But what made him the other thing… The not happy, but other thing… Unhappy, was that he would soon be left alone. It didn't matter how briefly the walk to the shop took, for a stretch of time he wouldn't be able to bathe in the pleasure of John Watson, naked as a baby, who would happily shower his partner in affection despite Sherlock's outward coldness. All men have needs, after all, no matter how icy and his need was to retain the delightful feelings of passion and excitement still solidly on their minds from the night before. He always craved the thing which would occupy his concentration, now he knew the thing which had been missing was this fresh fascination comprising of discovering every inch of Watson's body and mind. Finding every single pressure point and 'on' switch to drive his man insane with lust and hunger. He was never bored any more.

So, rather than complain, or beg John to stay with him, he nervously stood and tossed his book away as he extended his long, sleek body gloriously. He watched his short bulky man's still-firm soldierly body bend double to examine the contents of their fridge and, as predicted, he gently murmured an admission of his annoyance of their fridge's empty interior apart from a few body parts scattered around their drawers. It was something he had grown accustomed to, but of course didn't appreciate so much. Sherlock padded almost silently towards him, biting his lip, still terrified of the intense feelings continually raging around his body whenever they were together. He quickened his pace as John stood and just as he was about to turn away from the fridge and complain he caught him around the waist from behind, squeezing their bodies affectionately together. All thoughts of food, the shop, and the activities of the day were lost immediately from John's mind as he whirled around, grabbing a now trembling Sherlock by the back of his neck and pulling him into a warm, wet kiss as though he had been tensed, waiting for an excuse all morning to drive his warm tongue between his teeth.

Their lips were soft and flexible as they devoured each other with their tongues, twirling and twisting them as though dancing. They stopped briefly for breath and gazed into each others eyes, sweet expressions on their faces, even the cold comforting walls Sherlock usually wore in the form of an icy stare melted away. With no further ado, they returned to their previous position, locked at the mouth, finding each other almost entirely edible. Kisses began to drift away from their mouths and faces onto necks then chests then stomachs. It took a matter of minutes and they had both fallen to their knees for better access to each others bodies, John's hands halfway up his 'Lock's perfectly white thigh while he reigned kisses around his pale torso.

The doorbell rang it's war cry and their intimate moment shattered like glass.

"Damn!" Sherlock exclaimed as they abruptly parted and John began to throw clothes on. He very nearly stormed to the door, in his full glory, but John swiftly whipped his robe off and threw it over him, blurting something out about scaring the neighbours. He left John struggling to pull a pair of invitingly tight blue jeans on and stormed down the stairs; where he did his best to slam the door open. There stood a suited man, a sheet of paper in hand and a wide smirk across his face. He hardly startled at the robed Sherlock and immediately noticed the uncharacteristically angry flush across his cheeks.

"This had better be important Mycroft or you're dead." Sherlock growled, grabbing his brother roughly by the shirt collar and yanking him roughly inside.

"Oh I'm sorry, 'Lock'," he purred, mocking John's intimate nickname and causing Sherlock to flush an even deeper crimson red. "Were the two of you waist deep… in something really important?" He pushed past with merely a feline flash of a wink and stalked up the stairs, leaving his brother curling his hands into fists, oblivious to the people watching him curiously from the street. "I have a job for you." Mycroft called over his shoulder. "If the two of you can part ways for a little while. I swear you've been attached at the lips for the past few weeks, hardly heard from you…" He seemed to disregard the fact his brother could often think of nothing worse than lengthy discussions with him.

"Ah!" John exclaimed in surprise, his heckles raised in alarm as Mycroft sauntered in uninvited. He relaxed slightly at the sight of his lover marching conceitedly behind him, his face still caught in a sweet blush. "Oh hello Mycroft." Was all that escaped his lips as he forced a t-shirt on and began to fuss, clearing a huge pile of mostly unidentified, scabby books off a chair to make room. It took Mycroft less than twenty seconds to identify what they had been doing, right down to the details that John had been to the fridge and Sherlock had grabbed him around the waist and tugged him into his arms, though it would've taken his brother four seconds. Despite his urge to gloat, he hadn't the time.

"Oh don't worry Watson, I don't have time to stop and chat, just thought I'd drop this off." His wrist flicked easily and he flourished the note out before him. The thick, coarse paper indicated to Sherlock without examination that the note belonged to someone of high class and knowing Mycroft's connections he was unsure whether he actually wanted to read it. He glimpsed at the handwriting, within a moment he recognized that lettering and emotion flickered across his face. She was gone, yet there it was. Why? How? He retained the guise of emotionlessness. Watson saw the swell of sentiment he tried to hide, but there was nothing else to say. He grabbed the note roughly and it wasn't long before he was consequently ushering out Mycroft and shortly after that he swiftly took to pacing around the room in which Watson stood; his entire body rigid and uncomfortable.

"What is it Sherlock?" He growled, face twisted into nervousness. Everything suddenly grew cold as though a gap of ice was between them, the freezing gap in question a vixen his companion had liked to refer to only as 'The Woman'. He knew the writing too, or more he knew the reaction from Sherlock at her name, or any mention of her. He frowned, he hated it. And yet there he stood, still only clad in Watson's robe, as brazen and emotionless as possible.

"Nothing." Sherlock growled, similarly defensive. John frowned and the tiniest blink of a frustrated, jealous tear rolled into the corner of his eye. He abruptly snatched his coat up from its hook beside the door and he left. It took Sherlock minutes to recognise the emptiness in the apartment and suddenly the sparseness was eating at him, engulfing him.

He had lost Irene, a long time ago. Long before he and John. Now he was alone, again. He could only remember the pain clearly plastered on his lover's face back then. He had spat something about them naming their offspring 'John' or 'Hamish', his voice demure and yet aggressive, shadowed jealously in their dominating company. He counted each time the text from Irene had made the suggestive noise that made him so anxious. It hurt him, a lot more than it initially seemed, and Sherlock had been blind to his pain each time. John had gone and gotten a girlfriend around the same time, girlfriend after girlfriend to distract himself from the hunger he felt every time he was around his 'best friend'. He hadn't even noticed. Now it plagued his mind, swilled around in his head, what if John was out getting a girlfriend. John, sweet John, the one who had sat with him through his depression, who would do anything for him. 'We're not a couple', 'yes you are' nothing more needed to be said, what with their dependence on each other and their close bond, of course feelings would come into it. Only Sherlock had been blind to it. And now was it thrown away over a simple letter? It was still too hard for him to understand the feelings, all the feelings flooding his mind and heart and the butterflies. It was always butterflies with John. He didn't know how relationships happened and the tearing sensation in his heart happened every time his lover stormed away, never hinting when or why he would return. Oh why, he wondered, won't my head stop whirring? Please, John.

He didn't know he'd been standing, alone, almost naked in the room for a ridiculously long while, the sun had begun to climb and eclipse its zenith in the sky. He didn't notice the knock on the door an hour earlier, nor the fact whoever was there had gone away shortly after, drained and impatient. He didn't notice the tingle in his brain telling him to run out after his lover and find him, no matter the cost of time and effort. He didn't notice John walk back in, put food in the fridge and stomp upstairs to hide in their room. He didn't notice his lover wander back downstairs sometime later in a different frame of mind, now the one entirely naked. His thoughts weren't broken until the strong arms wound their way around his waist and he began to feel kisses on the back of his neck.

"Sherlock." The sound was like a kiss itself, the brush of a butterfly landing on his skin. He breathed it into his neck, the warmth of his voice erotic, breaking every barrier and defense Sherlock Holmes had put up to protect his fragile actuality in his entire life. "I don't care anymore. I know whose writing that was. It's been and done now. She's gone. You and her are done. We'll open the note later, but for now…" Sherlock's eyes closed and his head rolled back on his shoulders in blissful surrender.

"She's gone, John." He admitted, rolling his tongue between his teeth as he spoke. He felt the hands tighten on his waist, pulling him closer, groping for the delicate skin. "I'm yours."

"Well, 'Lock, there's only one way to make sure of that… Where were we then?" Both hands reached around his chest and into the black jacket and tugged it off his shoulders, before attempting to unbutton his shirt from the same position. John suddenly found himself pushed away and he purposefully crumpled neatly into an armchair, his lap as enticing to his lover as the comfiest armchair, his warm, open body a tribute to his strength and loyalty. Sherlock turned and smiled at him before creeping towards him, stripping as he went. The other side of Sherlock again, the side he reserved exclusively for his company. His entire lower half began to stir lustfully.

"I swear, John, if anyone else wants to give us any notes from long lost women, or show us some flying pigs or if the universe wants to collapse in on itself…" He slid onto the arm of the chair on which Watson sat, devouring him with his eyes. From there he began to massage his shoulders, causing a groan of lust and pleasure… "They will have to wait." He pounced.


End file.
